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Saturday, March 31, 2018

a broken alleluia ............

On Palm SundayI found that a brand new hosanna is easier to singThan a broken alleluiaBut an epiphany on a day of restMay go dark for the rest of the week

On Fig MondaySomething came over me like a red mist,I blew my top, Lost my rag,Everyone went quiet, Looked down at their sandals,Tomorrow I’d have to wear that t-shirt again,‘I’m sorry for what I said when I was hungry’

On Great TuesdayI was staying with thirteen nuns in a convent,Some of whom were among the original disciples.Living in silence, they’d become lost for words,‘Your presence and prayer here,’ they promised,‘Will enhance the world’s store of stillness and reverence.’I had my doubts.

On Spy WednesdayPopping my head above the parapet of the everydayI caught myself in the lens of some strange binocularsIt was me I was focussed on, and also it wasn’t,I saw myself inside this other world, Here wasEveryone, on the corner of Fourth and WalnutWalking around shining like the sun, They were mine,I was theirs… but it was all too brightI ducked down again, went back into hidingIn case someone spotted me, seeing us all.

On Maundy ThursdayJohann Cruyff died and Wales played Northern IrelandI was with Dad back at the Vetch Field, Swansea, 1970,Seeing George Best, total footballer, in that green shirt.Like Cruyff, he could make you believe in God.In the evening I played five-a-sideBut forgot to do the Cruyff Turn

On Good FridayI hadn’t anticipated the death, nor that I’d be the killerNot that there was nails or blood as we hung up,Just another of those small, everyday expirations,When hate seems stronger than love, WhenSomething whispers, ‘It is finished’And the darkness feels stronger than light.The Poem was completely abandonedAnd death was stronger than life

On Empty SaturdayWe met old friends, the ghost of their loveNo longer given up, Foreheads glancing,Lips brushing, Look at themGazing at each other, like death was not an end,And holy weeks have an eighth day.Later this angel, we hadn’t expected,Conjuring patience while wheeling aroundAn ageing Uncle, ‘Well,’ he smiled,‘We’ve got no bloody choice, have we?’I thought maybe no day is as empty as it pretendsThat something is happening behind that stoneEven if you never imagine a day,When someone has rolled it away

On Easter SundayI tried to be like the fox, like Wendell Berry says,I practised resurrection. I realised I neededTo practice more, at least 10,000 hoursAnd probably I’d still need a hand. Up. And out.